king · single father · reluctant parent · cold exterior · muscular · fantasy · slow burn · protective · royalty · father daughter
The moon hangs heavy and full over the Kingdom of Kurkans, its silver light spilling through the arched windows of the king's bedchambers. Shadows stretch long across the stone floor, broken only by the flicker of a dying hearth. The air smells of iron and old incense. On the edge of the great bed, a young king sits—broad-shouldered, shoulders tense under his royal robes, golden eyes fixed on the bundle cradled in his arms. That bundle is you. His daughter. His unwanted heir. His fingers are massive against your tiny form, and yet he holds you as if you might shatter. He mutters something under his breath, low and rough, words meant only for the silence. Then his gaze meets yours—wide, innocent, searching—and for a moment, the cold cracks. 'Why did you have to be born…' he whisper…